Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

are going to return to town. But I must have a few words with a certain lady at Daisymead first.’

      The same little maid opened the door to us.

      ‘They’re all at lunch now, sir – unless it’s Miss Saintclair you want to see, and she’s resting.’

      ‘It will do if I can see Mrs Oglander for a few minutes. Will you tell her?’

      We were led into the drawing-room to wait. I had a glimpse of the family in the dining-room as we passed, now reinforced by the presence of two heavy, solid-looking men, one with a moustache, the other with a beard also.

      In a few minutes Mrs Oglander came into the room, looking inquiringly at Poirot, who bowed.

      ‘Madame, we, in our country, have a great tenderness, a great respect for the mother. The mère de famille, she is everything!’

      Mrs Oglander looked rather astonished at this opening.

      ‘It is for that reason that I have come – to allay a mother’s anxiety. The murderer of Mr Reedburn will not be discovered. Have no fear. I, Hercule Poirot, tell you so. I am right, am I not? Or is it a wife that I must reassure?’

      There was a moment’s pause. Mrs Oglander seemed to be searching Poirot with her eyes. At last she said quietly: ‘I don’t know how you know – but yes, you are right.’

      Poirot nodded gravely. ‘That is all, madame. But do not be uneasy. Your English policemen have not the eyes of Hercule Poirot.’ He tapped the family portrait on the wall with his fingernail.

      ‘You had another daughter once. She is dead, madame?’

      Again there was a pause, as she searched him with her eyes. Then she answered: ‘Yes, she is dead.’

      ‘Ah!’ said Poirot briskly. ‘Well, we must return to town. You permit that I return the king of clubs to the pack? It was your only slip. You understand, to have played bridge for an hour or so, with only fifty-one cards – well, no one who knows anything of the game would credit it for a minute! Bonjour!’

      ‘And now, my friend,’ said Poirot as we stepped towards the station, ‘you see it all!’

      ‘I see nothing! Who killed Reedburn?’

      ‘John Oglander, Junior. I was not quite sure if it was the father or the son, but I fixed on the son as being the stronger and younger of the two. It had to be one of them, because of the window.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘There were four exits from the library – two doors, two windows; but evidently only one would do. Three exits gave on the front, directly or indirectly. The tragedy had to occur in the back window in order to make it appear that Valerie Saintclair came to Daisymead by chance. Really, of course, she fainted, and John Oglander carried her across over his shoulders. That is why I said he must be a strong man.’

      ‘Did they go there together, then?’

      ‘Yes. You remember Valerie’s hesitation when I asked her if she was not afraid to go alone? John Oglander went with her – which didn’t improve Reedburn’s temper, I fancy. They quarrelled, and it was probably some insult levelled at Valerie that made Oglander hit him. The rest, you know.’

      ‘But why the bridge?’

      ‘Bridge presupposes four players. A simple thing like that carries a lot of conviction. Who would have supposed that there had been only three people in that room all the evening?’

      I was still puzzled.

      ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand. What have the Oglanders to do with the dancer Valerie Saintclair?’

      ‘Ah, that I wonder you did not see. And yet you looked long enough at that picture on the wall – longer than I did. Mrs Oglander’s other daughter may be dead to her family, but the world knows her as Valerie Saintclair!’

       ‘What?’

      ‘Did you not see the resemblance the moment you saw the two sisters together?’

      ‘No,’ I confessed. ‘I only thought how extraordinarily dissimilar they were.’

      ‘That is because your mind is so open to external romantic impressions, my dear Hastings. The features are almost identical. So is the colouring. The interesting thing is that Valerie is ashamed of her family, and her family is ashamed of her. Nevertheless, in a moment of peril, she turned to her brother for help, and when things went wrong, they all hung together in a remarkable way. Family strength is a marvellous thing. They can all act, that family. That is where Valerie gets her histrionic talent from. I, like Prince Paul, believe in heredity! They deceived me! But for a lucky accident, and test question to Mrs Oglander by which I got her to contradict her daughter’s account of how they were sitting, the Oglander family would have put a defeat on Hercule Poirot.’

      ‘What shall you tell the Prince?’

      ‘That Valerie could not possibly have committed the crime, and that I doubt if that tramp will ever be found. Also, to convey my compliments to Zara. A curious coincidence, that! I think I shall call this little affair the Adventure of the King of Clubs. What do you think, my friend?’

       4 The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim

      ‘The Disappearance of Mr Davenheim’ was first published in The Sketch, 28 March 1923.

      Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea. We were sitting round the tea-table awaiting his arrival. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the cups and saucers which our landlady was in the habit of throwing, rather than placing, on the table. He had also breathed heavily on the metal teapot, and polished it with a silk handkerchief. The kettle was on the boil, and a small enamel saucepan beside it contained some thick, sweet chocolate which was more to Poirot’s palate than what he described as ‘your English poison’.

      A sharp ‘rat-tat’ sounded below, and a few minutes afterwards Japp entered briskly.

      ‘Hope I’m not late,’ he said as he greeted us. ‘To tell the truth, I was yarning with Miller, the man who’s in charge of the Davenheim case.’

      I pricked up my ears. For the last three days the papers had been full of the strange disappearance of Mr Davenheim, senior partner of Davenheim and Salmon, the well-known bankers and financiers. On Saturday last he had walked out of his house, and had never been seen since. I looked forward to extracting some interesting details from Japp.

      ‘I should have thought,’ I remarked, ‘that it would be almost impossible for anyone to “disappear” nowadays.’

      Poirot moved a plate of bread and butter the eighth of an inch, and said sharply:

      ‘Be exact, my friend. What do you mean by “disappear”? To which class of disappearance are you referring?’

      ‘Are disappearances classified and labelled, then?’ I laughed.

      Japp smiled also. Poirot frowned at both of us.

      ‘But certainly they are! They fall into three categories: First, and most common, the voluntary disappearance. Second, the much abused “loss of memory” case – rare, but occasionally genuine. Third, murder, and a more or less successful disposal of the body. Do you refer to all three as impossible of execution?’

      ‘Very nearly so, I should think. You might lose your own memory, but someone would be sure to recognize you – especially in the case of a well-known man like Davenheim. Then “bodies” can’t be made to vanish into thin air. Sooner or later they turn up, concealed in lonely places, or in trunks. Murder will out. In the same way, the absconding clerk, or the domestic defaulter, is bound to be run down in these days of wireless telegraphy. He can be headed off from foreign countries; ports and railway stations are watched; and as for